


the city's creature

by starstrung



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M, Is It An Assassination Or Am I Being Seduced, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-02 22:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16313918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstrung/pseuds/starstrung
Summary: It is still difficult for Vimes to imagine why Vetinari wantshimhere, among all the fancy nobility and heads of guilds. He suspects that it gives Vetinari pleasure to see all of his pawns so splendidly arrayed to his own choosing, but Vimes doesn’t usually let himself come to this conclusion until he has a drink safely in his hand.





	the city's creature

No matter how much care Vimes takes in dressing before he goes out, the city always finds a way to lay her mark upon him.

Off duty means that he has left his badge and sword behind, but there is no mistaking him for anything other than a copper. It is, perhaps, his gait. While most people can be observed to be walking or even strolling, Vimes can only be described as _patrolling_. Instead of bowing his head out of the light rain that falls, he scowls stubbornly through it, attention drawn to the dark corners of the streets he knows so well.

The boots he wears are his best pair, which only means that they have actual soles, and not cardboard. He did spend some time shining them — or rather, he spent some time considering shining them, and then decided not to, just in case the grime was the only thing keeping them together. Still, he’d rubbed them as much as he’d dared with an old cloth.

Walking out of his door without that familiar cushioning from the muck beneath his soles had been disorienting, and, he suspects, bad for his knees. It doesn’t matter. Vimes has barely gone three streets and a fresh cake of grime has replaced the old. This one smells worse than the last, although Vimes does not notice. He is only glad that his joints stop their creaking.

By the time he arrives, dust from the roads has settled comfortably across the shoulders of his coat, the cuffs of his sleeves smell distinctly of woodsmoke from Ankh-Morpork’s greasier dining establishments, the top of his head is sprinkled liberally with bathwater someone has thrown out from a window overhead, and Vimes feels less like he’s dressing up as someone he’s not.

The crowd gathering at the great doors of the Patrician’s Palace are Ankh-Morpork’s most sparkling and heavily jewelled. Among them are enough feathers, Vimes estimates, for at least a dozen migrating flocks.

Several times on his way up the steps, Vimes is mistaken for a footman. The third time someone hands him their coat, he just lets it fall to the ground, where it lies very much like a dead animal, much to the dismay of its owner. Ignoring this, Vimes pushes his way to the doors, mood already thoroughly blackened.

After all these years as Captain, Vimes continues to dread these parties. He never means to come. Every year he builds up the courage to tell Vetinari that, and Vetinari simply looks him up and down with cold disapproval, says “I do hope you will look presentable this year, Captain”, and Vimes finds himself dragging his only suit out of his closet and shaking off the spiders.

There are usually quite a lot of spiders. He only wears it for guardsmen funerals and these damn parties. Sybil has demanded that he let her buy him new suits, and so far he has avoided it. He suspects he will wake up one day to find Sybil’s seamstress sewing him directly into a new one right there on his bed.

This year, he didn’t even bother trying to ask Vetinari to excuse him. Sybil expects him to attend, after all, and he doesn’t want to let her down. Their wedding is approaching at a maddening pace and Vimes finds himself struck with terror at the thought of somehow ruining it.

As he steps into the palace, he glances up to find Vetinari watching him from above, looking even more severe than usual. Somehow the man has found something to wear that brings out even more sharp angles than before. His neck looks long and haughty as he peers down over the crowd.

It is still difficult for Vimes to imagine why Vetinari wants _him_ here, among all the fancy nobility and heads of guilds. He suspects that it gives Vetinari pleasure to see all of his pawns so splendidly arrayed to his own choosing, but Vimes doesn’t usually let himself come to this conclusion until he has a drink safely in his hand.

Vetinari nods at him. Vimes begins to sweat.

“Sam, you made it!” Sybil swims through the crowd towards him, and the sight of her dazzles Vimes for a moment. After he is done blinking away the spots, he takes her in. Her wig tonight is a work of engineering marvel. What must be pounds of hair and jewels are arranged in a towering masterpiece that throws anyone on the right of her into multi-colored shadow. Even without that, she is easily the tallest person in the room, carrying her head proudly.

“Oh, you do look nice tonight, Sam,” Sybil says, patiently brushing a spider off his lapel. “I might be growing a bit fond of this old suit of yours after all.” She bends down to kiss him on the lips, her hand stroking along his jaw.

“Really?” Vimes says, blushing, still not used to being kissed. “You look—” Words fail him for a moment. Sybil looks very much like she should be at the top of that balustrade with Vetinari, leader of the people up on their pedestal, instead of down here with him and his dusty trousers, being kind.

A sharp smell draws his attention to her gloves which, as according to the latest fashion, are of dainty tapered fingers and clean white lambskin. In Sybil’s case, her hands are not particularly dainty given that they are each the size of carriage wheels, and there is foul-scented ointment staining the tips of her gloved fingers — the kind she likes to smooth onto her dragons’ bellies if they’re having trouble breathing. His heart bursts out of fondness, and shame at his own thoughts.

“You look lovely, my dear,” Vimes says, loving her.

Sybil is pleased with this, her cheeks dimpling very attractively, and she takes his arm and leads him through the packed entryway into one of the drawing rooms. It is much easier to navigate the press of people with someone built like Sybil Ramkin leading you, he finds, and he draws close to her, feeling safe.

When Vimes thinks to look up to see if Vetinari still watches him, he finds that he has disappeared from his perch.

  


 

 

It goes alright for the first hour or so. Vimes does _try_ to enjoy the evening. It’s easy when Sybil is by his side, telling him about her dragons, and he can get distracted by staring into her eyes and thinking happily of spending the rest of his life with her.

With some convincing, he even dances with her, his head pillowed upon her great breast. The world somehow spins slower around them as they move to the music.

But then there are so many people she wants to introduce him to. Lords and ladies of this-and-that, statesmen, diplomats, and they all want to congratulate them on their engagement.

Before when he came to these things, he would stand by the refreshments table and scowl, and never had to actually _talk_ to anyone unless made to. His face begins to hurt from smiling, his head begins to pound from the inane conversation, and so finally he takes a drink from a passing attendant.

“It’s to look polite,” he explains, when Sybil raises her eyebrows at him.

The evening swims on. Vimes finds himself in conversation with — some weasel-faced man. He’s sure they were introduced, because that’s the sort of useless thing one must do before starting up a conversation, but for the life of him, Vimes can’t remember his name. And he doesn’t care to. It’s taking everything he has to not wring the man’s neck, in fact.

“They’re like rats,” the man says, his ridiculous mustache flecked with bits of custard. “I don’t know why they don’t just burn all of the Shades down. It’s a pox upon the city.”

Sybil is deep in conversation with someone else and out of earshot, or else she would see the fearsome look on Vimes’ face and try to bring him out of it. As it is, Vimes finishes his drink calmly enough, the shaking of his hand the only sign of how he has gone stiff with anger. He gets another from a passing server.

“You were born there, weren’t you Captain?” says one of the more perceptive attendees. The others turn surprised looks on him.

“I was,” he says, voice gone harsh. They all draw back from what they see in him. Like they would draw back from a rabid dog, Vimes thinks, through the red haze.

He smiles at them, baring his teeth, and they all pale visibly. “If anyone tries to burn it down, I would run them through with my sword first,” Vimes tells them simply, and turns on his heel and walks away before he says anything else.

He is struggling to keep his anger in check, and so he does not realize he’s walking directly into the circle of dancers, who have begun some kind of fast-paced and dizzying waltz. Before he can move to avoid it, an errant elbow catches him across the face with a resounding crack.

Vimes immediately finds himself sitting on the floor, a murmuring crowd gathered around him. There is blood pooling on his upper lip and onto his chest. He chokes out a laugh. His suit is finally ruined once and for all.

Someone offers him a handkerchief. He glances up to find Sybil looking down at him. He takes her handkerchief, and then gets shakily to his feet.

“Sybil, I didn’t—” he says, muffled, the handkerchief pressed to his face. Every eye in the room is upon them. Even the musicians stop their playing to crane their necks at what is happening.

“It’s alright, my dear,” she says, and begins to lead him away from the main hall. His legs are so shaky that she carries most of his weight. He loses track of things after that, his eyes slipping shut.

“How many has he had?” a voice asks. It sounds like Vetinari, although that can’t be right, Vimes thinks. Vetinari would never come down from his pedestal for him.

“Three while I was looking, at least three more while I was not, if I am to be the judge of it,” Sybil says.

“Oh, dear,” the voice sighs. “We might as well take him somewhere quiet before he upsets someone’s pudding.”

He is brought upstairs to a quiet room, a study of some sort. There is a fire crackling in the hearth, books on the shelves, a desk covered in papers. Vimes can imagine none of Vetinari in the stark opulence of the rest of the palace, but this is one room that looks lived in. Sybil sets him down on the couch.

The floorboards creak a little from the weight as Sybil sets her wig down.

“Ah, that’s much better,” she says, rolling her shoulders and running a hand over the sparse hair on her shaved head. Vimes sees muscles shifting underneath her finery, strengthened from long days working with her dragons, and his mouth goes a little dry. He hopes she’ll still marry him, after this.

“I’ll just get you some water, my dear,” says Sybil.

After Sybil disappears, Vimes must doze off for a bit, because when he looks up, Vetinari is seated across from him, looking at him intently.

“Muh?” says Vimes in panic.

“Charming,” says Vetinari.

Vetinari leans back in his chair, still surveying Vimes. Vimes shifts uncomfortably on the couch. His nose has stopped bleeding.

“You are allowed to be happy, you know. There is no law against that,” Vetinari says, and Vimes wonders just who he is speaking to.

In a quick, unconscious movement that he doesn’t seem to be aware of, Vetinari pulls at the sleeve of his robes so that it settles even more severely across his narrow wrists. Vimes is not sure why his attention is drawn to the movement. He’s never seen Vetinari _fidget_ before.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he says, helplessly, because if Vetinari continues to look uncertain in this way, Vimes will be truly lost.

This seems to help, in some way. Vetinari makes a cruel, mocking noise, which is familiar, as is the feeling of hot anger curling in his gut. Vimes hates these parties. Vetinari knows this, and yet he still requires him to attend.

“You don’t need me here,” Vimes says, forgetting all deference. “What good am I here? I should be out there, on duty.” He gestures out to the city. The window is slightly open, and he can hear the sound of carriage wheels on cobblestone, rain against brick. His city.

“You would leave your fiancée to attend on her own?” Vetinari asks, coldly, daring him to answer the question incorrectly. He sounds unmistakably disappointed with Vimes. Vimes is well aware of the consequences of disappointing the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. He gulps, and immediately regrets it, as he catches Vetinari’s eyes tracking the movement.

“She’d be better off at these things without me to muck it up, is all,” says Vimes, hating how small his voice sounds.

“Are you so consumed by your own misery that you can’t see that Sybil is just as reluctant to attend as you are?” Vetinari says.

At first, Vimes is about to scoff at the idea of it — Sybil is ready to make friends with everyone in the room. He’s seen her make the guardsmen outside the city jail grin, which had delighted him at the time, even though later he’d had to dock their pay — unprofessional behavior, and all that.

But his mind flashes with damning clarity back to the evening with Sybil before he’d gotten drunk. The sneering looks that some of the other guests had given Sybil, the way so many of them had found ways to interrupt her before she could tell them about her dragons. How sometimes he would catch her sighing quietly, before gathering herself.

“Oh,” Vimes says, stupidly.

“Indeed,” Vetinari says.

“But she — she always attends. She always has. Why?”

Vetinari studies the upholstery of the armchair he is sitting in, and does not look at Vimes. “For me. Because I ask her,” he says simply. “There are not many in this city that I trust.”

Vimes _knows_ Vetinari. He never does anything without at least a dozen ulterior motives. If he has an egg for breakfast it’s because it’s part of his thousand-step plan to topple a coup that hasn’t even begun yet. If he wants Vimes here, it is for a reason.

“And me?” Vimes dares to ask.

Vetinari turns his glittering gaze on him. “Ask what you mean, Captain, or I will not answer,” Vetinari warns him, in a tone that does not invite negotiation.

Vimes takes a breath. “Do you trust me?” he asks.

“I do not,” says Vetinari without hesitation, and Vimes is not sure why he is disappointed by that, why it makes him feel small and insignificant. He is rumpled and drunk and has blood crusting on his face. He just made an utter spectacle of himself. He doesn’t deserve to be trusted.

But Vetinari goes on. “You are the city’s creature. You are rude and reckless and,” Vetinari exhales sharply, “maddeningly unpredictable. So no, I do not trust you. This city would be far simpler if you were not in it.” Vetinari’s lips twist in a bitter smile. “But it wouldn’t be my — this city anymore.”

“Sir,” says Vimes, and it’s too soft, the note in his voice. He should, perhaps, yell, or stand up very decisively and stand at attention, although that doesn’t seem like something his legs are capable of at the moment. He should certainly not be saying _Sir_ like that, gentle and unsure.

And then all of Vimes’ thoughts end abruptly on a hanging sentence, unfinished, because Vetinari’s lips are on his. It is just a light press, but the shock of it claws through him all the same. Vetinari’s hand brushes across the side of his face, its touch barely there.

When Vetinari pulls away, Vimes makes a ragged, frayed noise that doesn’t feel like it should have come from him. He isn’t sure what just happened. He’s still clutching Sybil’s bloody handkerchief in one hand.

His thoughts seem like they are taking long minutes to catch up. More than anything, he is surprised by how much he wants to pull Vetinari back to him. How he wants to take those long fingers and draw them against his lips. Just to see. Just to know.

The look on Vetinari is giving him stills him, roots him in place.

Sybil is standing in the doorway. Vimes begins to panic, but then she smiles at him, a knowing, dazzling smile. She sits beside him, draws him towards her, and kisses him.

It is a very different kiss from the one she gave him earlier this evening, although, Vimes realizes, Vetinari is once again audience to it. It is slow, and consuming — he has never known Sybil to do anything in half measures. He observes, distantly, the wet slick noises they are making, and Vimes realizes that Vetinari can hear all of it.

He pulls away, chest heaving, unable to stop himself from turning. Vetinari has that same, sharp look on his face. Hunger.

“Havelock, we should let him sleep it off,” Sybil says. Her booming, operatic voice is soft now.

Vetinari turns to look at her. Vimes expects to see surprise, maybe, or guilt. Instead he sees gratitude cross that narrow face before it is hidden under its mask once again, and Vimes realizes that Sybil said _we_.

Oh, thinks Vimes, and to his surprise, wishes he were sober.

In a smooth, graceful movement, Vetinari gets to his feet. Vimes thinks he’s about to leave and rejoin the party, but instead he moves to the window, facing away just enough that it gives him the illusion of not paying them any mind.

With some fussing, Sybil gets him to drink nearly half the pitcher of water that she has brought with her.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” says Vimes. He tries to say more, but Sybil stops him.

“Drink your water,” says Sybil, patiently. She lets Vimes lean against her side, and cards fingers through his hair as he drinks.

All the while, Vetinari gives them discreet looks over his shoulder from the window, where he has arranged himself much like an affronted cat. Vimes may be too drunk to tell up from down at the moment, but he can still tell when someone is trying to be sneaky, and failing.

Eventually, Sybil sighs, although there is a sort of affection to it. She wets a cloth with the water she has brought, and holds it out to Vetinari.

In his haze, it takes a while for Vimes to figure out what she means by this. It is not until Vetinari accepts the cloth and then settles on Vimes’ other side on the couch that realization sinks in.

“Muh?” says Vimes again.

“Shut up,” says Vetinari, sounding strained. He begins to clean the blood from Vimes’ face, focusing so intently on his task that Vimes doesn’t dare to move.

“Breathe, you fool,” says Vetinari, sharply. Vimes immediately takes in a gulp of air, chest aching.

Sybil, who has gotten up to add logs to the fireplace, chuckles. Vimes hopes the dim light conceals how red his face must be.

To balance himself, Vetinari’s other hand moves to rest on Vimes’ knee, and Vimes focuses on that instead. He reaches down to circle Vetinari’s wrist — to push it away, or to hold him there, Vimes is not sure. Against his will, his thumb slips beneath the fabric of Vetinari’s sleeve, and traces the wiry veins that run just beneath the delicate skin of his wrists.

To his wonder, he sees Vetinari’s eyes widen. Vimes’ thoughts are too slow and viscous to make sense of what this means, only that he wants to see it happen again.

“He’s clean now,” announces Vetinari, tossing away the bloodied cloth. “I trust he won’t make a spectacle of himself if he goes out looking like this now.” He sweeps out of the room, leaving Vimes to contemplate whether he’d imagined the high spots of color on Vetinari’s cheeks.

  


 

 

Vimes wakes up in Sybil’s arms in her bed, light streaming in. He waits expectantly for the hangover that is sure to be splitting his head open, but instead there is just a light pounding at his temple. Sybil is a blessing for having him drink all of that water.

His mind carefully skirts around everything _else_ that happened that evening. Thankfully, Sybil chooses that moment to wake up next to him.

“You know we aren’t married yet,” Vimes says, drawing closer into the arm that she has thrown over him. “What will people say when they find me in your bed?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve seduced you into my arms,” Sybil says, yawning, turning him so that they face each other on the bed. “I suppose they’ll just have to get used to the idea of you, won’t they?”

The neck of her nightgown is slipping, and Vimes hooks a finger into it and helps it down further, kissing her bared shoulder. He keeps kissing her, thrilling in the way that Sybil’s fingernails are scratching through the short hairs at the back of his head. He moves lower, kissing across her belly.

When he draws all the way down, Sybil tightens her impressive thighs around his head, and keeps him there.

Some time later, ears ringing pleasantly and jaw thoroughly sore, Vimes makes his way downstairs, drawn by the smell of breakfast and the appetite that he just built up — only to find Vetinari sitting at the table, drinking tea. There is a dragon napping in his lap.

“What the—!” Vimes says, jumping back. Sybil, who has drawn a robe around her gown, comes up behind him.

“Good morning, Havelock,” she says warmly. “Do help yourself to some breakfast.”

Vetinari’s eyes settle over them, going noticeably to Vimes’ rumpled hair, the marks on his neck. Vimes resists the urge to clap his hand over his throat to cover them. This is absurd. He’s _marrying_ Sybil for gods’ sake. He shouldn’t feel caught out.

“Thank you, but I already ate,” Vetinari says smoothly. “I can see that I’m interrupting. I’ll come back later.”

“Don’t be silly, you'll upset Montgomery,” Sybil says. She pets the dragon very carefully on its side before going to the table and pouring out some coffee. “You can finish your tea at least. Have a scone.”

“What is he doing here,” Vimes hisses, still standing in the doorway to the dining room, as if going in will set off some trap. “Don’t offer him a scone!” He warily eyes Vetinari, who goes on sipping his tea, his long legs crossed, Montgomery snoring peacefully with its chin on Vetinari's knee. Vimes unwillingly remembers last night, of being kissed. _Oh gods_ , he thinks. _He’s come to kill me for it._

“I invited him,” Sybil tells him, filling up her plate. “I need him to run an errand for me, as I’m not feeling well this morning and can’t do it myself.” She adds a third sausage to her plate. Vimes frowns. Sybil had been feeling perfectly well this morning when she’d been pinning him down to the mattress by his wrists. But he can’t say that.

“What errand?” Vimes asks suspiciously.

Sybil mixes cream and sugar into her coffee. It all smells so good that Vimes finally finds the courage to step into the dining room, although he takes the long way round the table to where the coffee is, to avoid drawing too close to Vetinari. Vetinari pays him no mind.

“I just need some things picked up for the dragons,” Sybil says. “It shouldn’t take long. Why don’t you go with him, Sam?”

At this, Vetinari finally looks at Vimes, and then to Sybil. He looks almost — impressed, and Vimes can guess why. That was just a Vetinari-level manipulation. No wonder Sybil looks pleased with herself, as she tucks into a healthy portion of eggs.

“I’d be happy to, my dear,” Vimes grits out.

  


 

 

Vimes assesses the confined space of the carriage with trepidation. His mind, very thorough when it comes to these sorts of things, immediately comes up with several ways in which Vetinari can have him killed once he gets inside. He's never quite trusted carriages.

Very briefly, Vimes thinks of leaving the city and going somewhere where no one knows him, and no Patrician has any hold over him. As soon as he’s thought of it, he dismisses it. Vimes will never be able to leave this city behind, not really. He’s too ruined for anywhere else.

“Sir,” he says, carefully, “when’s the last time you, er, walked through the city?”

Vetinari looks to be considering it. “I’ve walked the entire length of the city hundreds of times on its rooftops. But it has been a while.”

Vimes tries to imagine Vetinari hopping across Ankh-Morpork’s rooftops in the middle of the night, and has to suppress a shudder of terror. “Well, I mean, it’s not far to the shops. Do you mind if we go on foot?”

At first, Vimes is afraid that Vetinari will have him dragged into the carriage by force. But to his surprise, he just looks intrigued by the idea.

“Very well,” Vetinari says, sliding out of the carriage to stand before him. “Lead the way, Captain.”

It’s wonderful weather in Ankh-Morpork, which only means that sunlight has managed to penetrate all the way to the streets, there is a fresh wind blowing that only smells slightly of moldy socks, and the rain from last night has washed out some of the bad odors, and also left the ground rather soggy.

Vimes walks at a brisk pace, taking the most direct route. He’s determined to get this over with as soon as possible, possibly without any murder of any kind. Vetinari, however, seems set on taking his time. He walks at a sedate speed a few steps behind, glancing curiously at the street vendors’ wares, so that Vimes is forced to slow his pace to match his.

At first, he is worried that the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork walking through the marketplace would cause a stir, since Ankh-Morporkians are raised from birth to be perceptive gawkers. However, Vimes is surprised by how well Vetinari seems to blend into the crowd when he wants to. His clothes, though well-made, are nondescript enough that they are almost unnaturally inconspicuous. Not once does the fish merchant realize that he’s telling his discounted cod prices to the Patrician himself.

Vimes only wishes that he could forget Vetinari’s presence just as easily.

He becomes aware of Vetinari watching him. He’s very good at it, the mad bastard. Every time Vimes glances over, Vetinari is admiring a spread of flowers, or in a conversation with a cheesemonger about dairy production, so Vimes can never quite catch him at it. But Vimes hasn’t survived this long without knowing when someone is watching him.

“Look, I’m sorry alright?” Vimes says at last, wheeling around to confront Vetinari, who is inexplicably browsing through some dyed fabrics. “I was drunk, and I’ve talked to Sybil about it, and,” he takes a breath, “well, we’ve discussed it. I’m sorry for my — indiscretion. Please don’t have me killed.”

Vetinari raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t come here to have you killed. I’m running an errand for Sybil.” He says it with such innocence that Vimes is almost _sure_ he’s joking, except that it’s _Vetinari_. Vimes has never known Vetinari to do anything so inane as joke around.

Vimes loses his mind just a bit, possibly. “I’m not an idiot, sir!” he says, nearly shouting. Thankfully it gets drowned out a little by a cart of squawking chickens that rattles by.

Some distant, rational part of Vimes realizes that they should probably not be doing this in an open marketplace. He can only imagine the consequences of being seen publicly arguing with the Patrician. He takes a breath and leads them to a quieter side street, although he takes very careful mental notes of all possible exits, just in case he needs to get away fast.

Vetinari takes in the change in scenery with a sort of scientific curiosity. Vimes feels sympathy for the rats that see Vetinari’s long shadow fall over them, and immediately scurry away. Ankh-Morpork rats rarely scurry away from anything, even sharp objects. “Do you really think Sybil would send you off to get killed by me?” Vetinari asks, sounding amused.

“Well, it sounds completely crazy when you say it like that,” Vimes says desperately. “But, I mean, the alternative is—” his voice trails off. He can’t even speak it out loud. He thinks of Vetinari’s lips on his, how it had felt with Sybil at one side, and Vetinari on his other.

“Yes?” Vetinari says, with maddening patience, as if he has just been waiting for Vimes to reach this conclusion all day. Of course he has. He and Sybil both, the conspirators. Vimes runs a hand over his face. He’d almost prefer an assassination attempt to — well.

Vimes takes a deep breath, and looks Vetinari in the eye. He’s just watching, waiting for Vimes to make the first move, to walk willingly into the trap that has been so expertly set by both Vetinari and Sybil. Vimes has to admire it, really, the care that they have both taken to lead him here.

With more confidence than he feels, he steps forward until Vetinari is leaning against the wall, looking down his long nose at him, their chests brushing with every breath.

This time when they kiss, it is anything but brief. Vetinari wraps long fingers around Vimes’ neck, to tip his head up, hold him there until Vimes feels — kept. His hand settles over Vetinari’s hip, his thumb pressing deep into the jut of bone there, Vetinari giving a low hum of pleasure against Vimes’ lips.

When they pull away, Vetinari’s lips are bitten and red. Vimes cannot drag his eyes from it. Vetinari still holds him, hands gently clasping the sides of his face.

“Sam,” Vetinari — Havelock — says, something of wonder in his voice. “My Sam.” Vimes closes his eyes, leans into the touch. _His Sam_ , he thinks. _His city. His creature._ He shivers.

  


 

 

There are certain advantages, Vimes admits, to traveling in a carriage. It’s certainly faster than walking, is slightly better protected from assassins than walking down the street. It also has just enough room for Vimes to settle on his knees in front of Havelock, where he is in a perfect position to give him careful attention, Havelock's hands pulling wonderfully at his hair.

(There is also a point where the carriage bounces over a pothole in the road, and Havelock’s cock hits the back of his throat, and so by the end of it, Havelock has one foot braced against the opposite wall of the carriage so he can keep fucking Vimes’ mouth, and Vimes has tears streaming down his face.)

When they make it back, Vimes realizes belatedly that they never did end up finishing Sybil’s errand. But as it turns out, neither Sybil or Havelock seem bothered by it.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/star_strung).


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